Yes, I’m inclined to write
You might say I’m obsessed to rhyme
But in today’s crazy world
Far worse has been done with time
So, I let the voice inside
Come forth with words of prose
Sometimes of tears that fall like rain
Others of the beauty in a single rose
I hear angels sing within my heart
Listen closely and you too may hear it
The smile that grows upon your face
I think you’ll find it’s a pleasure to wear it
Walk this earth with more than open eyes
Each step with radiant heart
Don’t forsake yourself
For all the beauty you are
Sometimes the words come not from me
And I’m merely a writing tool
But I’ll always lend a hand
For that’s a writer’s unwritten rule
Copyright © Accidental Poet 2007
- Author: Sharon\'s Poet (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: August 24th, 2021 05:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 37
Comments5
Lovely words , AP ๐ do the words come from the angels , sometimes?
Creativity flowing through you but sometimes the angels are helping you ..
Yes rose, I believe the words can come from angels and our muse. If you sometimes feel an intuitive feeling or voice inside trying to tell you something, its a special message for you. I find it happens a lot with my writing. I'm sure it does with you and others here on MPS. Thanks for reading and your comment. ๐
Maybe it happens . I understand what you mean . I completely believe in angels and I believe they are here sometimes
Good write AP.
Only one rule here for you Orchi. You know what that is? ๐ค
Yes, boo hoo, no singing! lol.
atta boy Orchi, here's a cookie for you. ๐
You nailed the reason for penning the verses we post and read here on M.P.S. - writers are those who can rise to a Muse and get across what newscasters can never do - a thoughtful subject and thanks A.P.
Thank you Fay, speaking of nailing, so did you. ๐
Those words just seem to flow from us AP.
Andy
And may they never stop. Thanks Andy. ๐
and we all know what happens when we break the rules now don't we ...
poetry about poetry can be sheer poetry AP .. well poemed dear poet ..
Yes, that's when our muse cracks the whip and there's no sleep to be found. Poetry in a poet's tree? ๐
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